


For Farce Sake

by EskewedBeef



Category: SNL - Fandom, Saturday Night Live
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn, very slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:00:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21671881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EskewedBeef/pseuds/EskewedBeef
Summary: A stupid joke to get you the job has left you in a predicament involving accents and secrecy.
Relationships: Bill Hader/You
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64





	1. The Audition.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You took a flight to New York from London to audition for a childhood favourite. You've got it in the bag, surely?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a stupid idea I had after binging a lot of SNL on YouTube. I don't know how long it'll be but hopefully I'll finish it or at least get to the bit people want.

**2005, New York.**

Well, in the many years you spent as a child in England watching rare SNL broadcasts on a fuzzy television, you would have never expected to be waiting in 30 Rockefeller Plaza, listening for your name as a signal to enter Studio 8H, to perform in front of Lorne. Fucking. Michaels.

You wouldn't be the first English cast member, although the number of cast members from old Blighty could be counted on one hand after a long time spent online. But despite this less than stellar achievement, you were still worried about how you could adapt to this environment. It was your first time in America, and all you knew about American culture was told to you through Saturday Night Live, music and whatever big news story had crossed the pond that week; yet you were asked to audition, which meant there was a sign that your humour could transcend national identity.

"Y/N Y/L/N?"

In your over analysing daze, you failed to notice the first time the receptionist called your name, the clouded vision clearing to see them staring at you concerned. "Uh, yes that's me." You felt your hand rise up to stay next to your head, a childish habit born from primary school to let new people know who you are, despite the fact a sticker with your name quickly scribbled on was adorned onto your t-shirt. "Mr Michaels is ready for you, if you just want to head down there." As they spoke they too used a simple hand gesture to direct you, only this time it was needed and wasn't still held in the air.

Your eyes followed their arm and landed onto the double doors. "Oh, okay" you croaked, wincing once you heard yourself. Jesus, it's just another audition, why are you so nervous? Your accent is enough to set you apart, you didn't need another thing to fuck you up when you speak. Finally, your hand dropped down and found the canvas of your new backpack- a gift from your oh so proud mother, grabbed onto the handle and lifted it from the ground as you stood, turning on the spot and making sure via a series of distress signals to the receptionist through facial expressions. They reaffirmed the gesture and with an unsatisfying sigh, you made your way towards the doors.

You had your routine set out: A mad series of accents, impressions and observations. There was Jodie Foster in Taxi Driver, but each time her accent got thicker, age more ludicrous and stories more shocking. Margaret Thatcher as a traditional cockney barmaid who displays her terrible reign of power through painful innuendo, and finally, a list of sketch ideas that you can read out.

You could see through the glass in the doors and you saw your childhood: that stage more familiar than the games of hopscotch you can barely remember the rules to. The lighting was soft, similar to when the hosts perform monologues, yet the band was nowhere to be seen.

The door pushed easier than the shaking of your arm suggested, a smooth entrance, one of power, one of confidence, one that you definitely didn't deserve. Like giving Fagin a gang of loyal boy thieves and a good song in the musical spin off.

"Just make your way to the mark on stage."

The voice was recognisable, one from a mouth that doesn't move to match the sounds, an accent so distinct it could only be Lorne. "Okay." You spoke with such fear it came out as a loud stage whisper, not helped with your increase in speed as you nearly ran up to the stage, stopping just before-

"Watch the steps."

You did.

One. Lights getting brighter.

Two. Beginning to enter the world of the stage.

Three.

Any chance of a glimpse of the face that belonged to the voice was long gone but despite not being able to see, you knew that it was just you and him.

"Name please."

A soft beep of a camera was your cue, quickly coughing and trying to smile like a normal human being. "Uh, Y/N Y/L/N."

"You have 10 minutes."

Deafening silence made the unzipping of your bag even more disruptive as you pulled out a lollipop, a fake pint of lager and a long list filled with frantic scribbles, ending with a badly attached union flag. 


	2. The Idea.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorne has a better idea in mind for you. Nothing dirty. I promise.

"So that's it."

Another beep, this time lower in tone signalled the camera turning off.

Although you ended your audition abruptly you were still expecting at least applause but alas...nothing. The silence was horrible, your mind working in tandem with your mouth to make up for it. "Thank you for giving me the chance, I've loved this show since I was a kid and to just be stood here," you stomped your foot on the stage, a dull thud firing back. "it's an honour."

"That Jodie Foster impression." Lorne began slowly, shifting in his seat judging by the rustling of fabric against fabric. 

"Yeah, I love Taxi Driver and it was a joke I used to make with my friends." You blurted out without thought. Why can't you just fucking shut up?

"Can you do any other American accents?"

Well, that's a question you should have expected. Can you? You opened your mouth, a fish out of water, then closed it again. Open. Close. Open...Your mouth started to adjust to this new accent and after a deep inhale you began. 

_" I can."_

The most generic American accent you could think to do appeared. It had no origin but it had no shakiness either. 

_"I kind of learned from watching the show actually. Just repeating the words that people said."_

You were being honest, at 6 you were a tacky little toy parrot, copying what people said immediately after to feel a sense of participation. It just led to the mean average of an accent: California by way of Texas with a detour to Missouri beginning from the Big Apple. You were convinced you could hear Toronto as well. 

The silence returned, slowly replaced by a low hum of decision. 

"How long can you keep it consistent?" 

_"As long as you need."_

Just...a lie. You didn't know you even had another accent until you spoke. But at least you had something to work on to slowly shift that statement from false to kinda true. 

You squinted your eyes to make out the shapes in front of you with no result. 

"Y/N, I picked you out as someone I wanted to audition for your writing," Lorne's words were slow and deliberate, building to something. "and I want you on our team as a writer. But, I've been wanting to test something for a while and I believe you could be the person to do this." 

_"Okay, thank you for the compliment."_

"You can stop with the accent" 

"Thank you." 

"I want to...fool our new cast." He paused for a second, clicked a pen and quickly scribbled something down. "I want to send in a secret Brit."

Well, that was something. You wrung your hands and wiped your brow, sweating from a mixture of stage lights and new found terror. "I'd be willing to accept but if you don't mind, may I ask a question?" 

Another scribble, then a pause, then "Sure."

"Why?" The word was carried out from your lungs and floated across out from the world of the well lit until it was swatted from its flight path with a simple yet dignified:

"Boredom."

Well, fair enough. You still stood there, trying to find some reason to not say yes. I mean there were several but Jesus, being on SNL as a writer was your dream. Nights spent slaving over scripts for British panel shows and comedic adverts were all leading up to this. A chance to make your name in a bigger market. At least with this plan, you could be memorable. After what seemed like an electric hour of blunt deliberation, your soon-to-be boss spoke again. "This won't be a permanent thing, the accent. It'll be for a year at most, just enough time to get you and the others comfortable."

The lights in the audience area went up and you saw him, lounging in a chair meant to keep people attentive, clipboard resting on his knee and the pen tucked behind his left ear. You did the usual polite smile, got one back, the sign of two people recognising each other. 

"I won't be performing for a year?"

"Do you want to?"

You thought of the amount of friends taking the piss out of your accent back home and grimaced.

"Not with the accent."

He nodded in agreement and plucked the pen from his ear, writing something down again and taking the sheet of paper out from the grip of the board. It was done with the manner of a cheque at an expensive dinner where you wanted to show off how the price meant nothing. "So," Lorne began, still looking at the paper then letting his gaze meet yours, "do you want to join us?"

You were taken aback, not only did you get the job but you didn't need a callback. "Oh my God, yes please." Lorne raised his arm with the paper, folding it into a U and pointing it towards you. "Here's the stuff I want you to know. Will you be able to find accommodation in 9 months?" That was just before October, a reasonable amount of time for someone with their bearings, i.e. not you:

"Yes."

Lorne gestured for you to take the paper, forcing you out of your frozen daze, quickly picking up your backpack, throwing it over one shoulder and running towards the edge of the stage.

"Watch out for the-"

Your foot misjudged the width of the step and found thin air, confusing the other foot and veering the course of your movement towards the floor, which you became friendly with a few seconds afterwards. It did not give a soft landing, as you unrealistically had hoped, instead creating a loud slapping sound against your sprawled palms and making your arms, torso and legs sprout maroon bruises, only fading after several months. At least you remembered to zip up your bag, thanking you by creating rough friction marks against any bare skin it made contact with.

"Are you okay?" You lifted your head to see the true shameful fact: who you fell in front of. _"Couldn't be better."_ With a groan, you got to your feet and tried to play down the limp, difficult as you started to realise the distance between where you landed and where Lorne sat. Eventually you got there, trying to readjust yourself to not look so dishevelled. Lorne stared at you, smiling in a way you weren't sure was sympathetic or condescending. The paper still stuck in that U, you shakily took it and read what was on it.

'When in doubt, say New York.'

Then a phone number underneath 'The office'

"What's this?" You read it over a few times.

He smiled, this time genuinely, "It's your past. The number is so you don't feel lost when people ask you a question." Your eyebrows raised unintentionally along with a slight high pitched sound emanating from your throat. "Like James Bond."

"Exactly. Can you see the receptionist on your way out so she can make sure your contact details are correct?"

 _"Will do Mr Michaels."_ Despite trying to sound cool, the shakiness of the piece of paper ratted you out. Spinning on the sore balls of your feet you tried to keep a hurried pace leaving the studio, stopping again as the glint of your shattered and disgustingly sticky lollipop caught your eye from the floor.

"Piss!" You ran over to manoeuvre the sweet from the ground.

"You know," Lorne spoke, his tone suggesting he was back to writing something, "It's outbursts like that which will give you away."

The lollipop lifted, long strings of sickly red sugar still connected. With a disgusted exclamation you finally made your way to the double doors and exited, dropping the sweet into the nearest bin and heading to the receptionist to confirm your place as a new writer for Saturday Night Live.

 _"Hi, I'm just making sure you have my details."_ The receptionist furrowed her brow and stopped what she was typing to look up.

"Why are you talking like that?"


	3. The Office.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a frantic and tiring time spent unpacking, you enter your new office at 30 Rock.

" _Hold the lift!"_

Okay, so you were rightfully honest with yourself- successful time management and you don't go hand in hand. You had just left your box filled apartment to get to the main building, and already you were close to dropping the accent at the receptionist, luckily not the one from before. This one just looked scared as you ran at them screeching your name and why you were here, but gave you the office number and what floor, before witnessing you nod and run for the closing lift doors- wait shit, **elevator** doors. There was no time for polite correction as you squeezed through the shrinking gap and immediately crouched, hands on knees and wishing you exercised. 

"What floor?" You looked up and saw an equally scared man next to the panel of buttons. He was fresh-faced but had a few signs of being more familiar with his surroundings and you wondered if he already knew. _"Uh_ , _"_ You stammered, trying to remember what the receptionist said and why you ran for one of 60 lifts. _"_ , _which one is the SNL offices?"_ He grinned at you and pressed a number, causing the lift to shudder and rise. Your stomach was stubborn and stuck to the ground, making the effort to straighten your back a bit more difficult. "Are you a new cast member?" The unknown man asked, still smiling. Finally, you stood up, leaning against the rail of the opposite side of the lift to him. _"I'm a writer. Y/N."_ Still shaky and out of breath you held out your hand, his clasping yours tightly. "I'm Jason. Writing for here is great, just a bit stressful, I don't know why I took the player role as well." Upon saying this, you saw the tinges of someone truly nervous, making you even more shaky as you released your grip and slid out of the handshake. You weren't used to strangers opening up this quickly, it needed at least a month of small talk before you could even approach the bad day chat. Nevertheless, you bit the bullet and leant into your warmer tendencies with a sincere _"There must be a reason they chose you."_ Jason chuckled and waved his arm in a dismissing motion. "You're being kind. " Well, you were.

The lift came to a stop, the voice announcing you were at the 19th floor. A fact you luckily could store as Jason strolled through the opening doors and beckoned for you to join him. "Come, I'll show you to your office." You quickly followed trying to take note of everything to avoid any further confusion. "I think you're being paired with a new guy," He stopped in his tracks and turned to you, "What was your office number again?" A single eyebrow raised like a 1920s detective. _"I didn't say, but it's 10."_ Another smile crept onto his lips. "Two doors down from me." You were happy about that fact, the chance to make a friend was a valuable one. He restarted his journey, taking all manner of turns before he stopped again, with the same suddenness, at office 10.

The door was open so you could peek in: two desks facing each other, framing the moderate sized couch in between. On each desk was the same stuff, a desktop computer, a desk tidy and the usual desk things. _"Wow it's like an office but informal."_ He slapped your shoulder, sending you further into the room, and laughed again. "That's Saturday Night Live." You dumped your bag which had taken a beating during this whole sequence of events, onto the chair on the left. Its wheels clicked with slight movement. 

"I'm gonna go to mine, if you need me I'll be in 8." You turned around just as Jason slapped the door frame with the same enthusiasm, pausing before leaving. "Oh and Lorne does a big meeting at 7 to discuss the new season so you've got 6 hours of free time. Lucky you." He left before you could say anything, even another nugget of kindness. You looked around again, and headed straight to the sofa. In your terrible planning, you had only spent a week in your new hometown, which meant only one thing: Jetlag was being a bitch.

You were used to this lack of sleep but it was normally your own fault, so the added lack of control made your body just want to shut down. Even if it was a decent sized sofa, you had to comply with your body, you had to sleep. Mastering the art of the fetal position you got yourself horizontal, your eyelids reacting like a childs baby doll, closing immediately. The waves of sleep started to wash over you as you thought about everything and nothing, wondering which sports bar will you have to go to to do an anti Cheers, where everybody doesn't know your name...

You woke back up, shaking and warmer than before. A quick travel with your finger down to your torso provided the answer: a hoodie had been draped over you. You looked down to see and caught a glimpse at what you hoped was the owner, working on the computer and moving frantically, mouthing words or at least you hoped he was mouthing them. 

He was about the same age as Jason but carried himself with this electricity that ricocheted off each long limb. His mouth was permanently edging towards a smile, seeming forced when frowning. His eyes matched the pale blue of a dawn sky and his eyebrows moved with each word. 

"Uh Hi-" Wrong one. Thankfully he didn't notice, too wrapped up in his own performance to notice bad acting just off stage. You tried again. 

_"Hello?"_

The performance took an interval as he heard you, waving then struggling to speak as well, going slightly red from the intrusion. 

"Oh hey!" He began to stand, dropping back down into the chair once he realised the levels of this scene. "I'm Bill."


	4. The Introduction.

His smile was wide and bright, emanating a warmth akin to the hoodie. You picked up the sleeve of it and waved.

_"I take it this is yours?"_

You tried to sound authentic with sleep's dark clutches on your throat, making any kind of groggy conversation hard. He looked away for a second, out of what you thought was embarrassment. "Oh yeah, you were shivering when I walked in so I thought you must have been cold. Sorry was I being weird?" You sat yourself up, the hoodie pooling at your lap then rolling off and landind on the floor. _" No, no, you weren't. Thank you. Always good to make a strong first impression."_ Carefully, you bent down to pick it up and dropped it on the back of the sofa. 

Bill typed something quickly and grinned. "That's why I was picked." As he spoke, you made an attempt to withhold the impulse to mouth or even, god forbid, repeat his words. Instead you chose to stare and smile, the quiet hum of the computer's fans becoming the dominant sound until you realised the quiet wasn't meant to be as comfortable as it was.

_"What impressions did you do in your audition? If that's what you were hinting at."_

He turned his head back to face you, the light in his eyes brighter than ever. You couldn't help but let out a subtle chuckle at the cartoon of a man in front of you, getting used to the idea of seeing him daily." Well I did a few: Pacino, Faulkner and uh- James Mason." Hang on. Mason's from Huddersfield. _"Mason? The one from Lolita?"_

Bill's tongue darted from his mouth and went over his lips as he slightly changed his posture then began doing the routine of James Mason using an expired **coupon** at Dunkin Donuts. Joining your uncontrollable laughter was the shock at hearing the accent you had to stop yourself from using. It felt like listening to the radio dramas that your mum paid diligent attention to. It felt like the meeting with the theatre darlings of the West End who had failed to recognise a new millennium. It felt like home. The man who had become a key of comfort had apparently stopped well before your own giddy laughter, those blue eyes shrinking in the twisting of confusion. "Y/N?"

 _"Oh sorry, I just- I wasn't expecting it to be that accurate."_ You wiped your eyes for tears. " _Not that I didn't have faith."_ It was your turn to be confused. _"How do you know my name?"_ Bill stammered for a moment, his fingers suspended over the keys, then his left hand lifted and reached over his shoulder to point behind him with his thumb. "Jason told me. He was a fan of your entrance."

_"As the bishop said to the choir boy."_

"What?"

 _"Nothing."_ You couldn't help yourself when the opportunity arose to make a stupid Carry On **-** esque innuendo. It was practically second nature, the reason for smiling at a developing script, the moment of pride when the host of Never Mind the Buzzcocks or Have I got News for You said them. It was built into you to use these terribly stereotypical phrases, and it was in this moment that you realised how big of a learning curve you were facing.

"What did you do? He didn't tell me and just kept laughing." It was your turn to impress, just with a less nuanced technique. _"I, well, I was running late and kind of just booked it for the elevator after scaring a receptionist. And I failed to notice the other, still working ones next to the one I was racing for. It's a simple mistake."_

"I wish I could have seen it." You imagined the scenario if he was there, the vision of you hurtling through a tight gap to nearly land on the floor of the metal chamber was a distinct one. Just not something you would want to be the defining moment. _"Trust me, you got lucky with,"_ Another mad hand gesture. _"all this."_ Bill's smile softened as you could see him process the real introduction to you: Curled up on a sofa, shaking like an alcoholic under interrogation. "Yeah, it's certainly the calmest event I've experienced. Seeing someone as exhausted as how I feel." You turned your body so your feet could touch the ground, the remnants of sleep's weary shackles slowly falling off of your limbs.

 _"I guess I'm just not used to the times."_ It would be the evening at home round about now, you would be trying to wind down and at least nap before staying up to write. "Oh, time difference is a bitch." Bill chuckled. "Where are you from originally? Travel must be affecting you."

 _"Uhhh..."_ Your eyes drifted to your bag, containing your phone that had the number of Lorne's office. Panic began to set in as you rifled through the corners of your mind for an answer. 

_"Uhhh..."_

'When in doubt, say New York' 

_"...New York."_

"Oh." He nodded, accepting the answer for just a moment, "But isn't that here?" You held your breath, waiting for some miracle. Nothing arrived, so you exhaled and tried again only this time weaving in some amount of honesty. _"I'm kind of an insomniac- well more like nocturnal. An office job is a very new set of required skills that I evidently don't have."_ You rubbed the back of your neck with your left hand, your right pushing down on the arm of the sofa as you stood up. _" What time is it?"_ Despite having more seats than arses, the office seemed to lack a valuable clock.

"4.30, we have 2 and a half hours until the meeting." Bill's voice quivered for a moment, the collection of nervous comedians you had been apparently making rising. You walked over to your desk and dumped your bag onto the floor, replacing it with you. From where you sat you could see your new office mate, the computer sat diagonal from yours. He smiled at you again and you built up the courage to force eye contact, something you never mastered naturally, the reason being sad and embarrassing and not for a discussion between new colleagues.

It took 2 seconds before you dropped your gaze again, the effort equivalent to your sprint for the lift. _"So where are you from?"_ A good re-icebreaker, you reminded yourself to celebrate the attempt. "LA. But originally Tulsa." There was a pause. "In Oklahoma." You gasped realising the reason for the paused, haphazardly responding on the inhale. _"Cool, cool. Gotta love the meh state."_

"Meh?"

The pitch came flying towards you.

 _"It's OK"_ Thwack! Home fucking run! Babe Ruth, bases, other baseball terms! 

Bill laughed then groaned, which was more satisfying than actual enjoyment in your opinion. "I hope you used better material in your audition." Did you? Lorne didn't laugh although you thought you saw him smile at one point. Oh you did: when you fell. 

_"I think I did. Jodie Foster, a bunch of sketch ideas and M-"_ Don't say it. Don't you dare. _"-any more."_ Improv classes were worth it, obviously. You switched on the computer, it's whirring to life harmonising with the fans of the machine opposite. Stuck on the bottom of the monitor was a post-it note with your login details. Ironically, the random string of letters and numbers that was your password consisted of a sweet 4 letter string sandwiched between less ironic numbers: 'gbuk'. You would have to talk to Lorne about that. 

As the silence settled in, you opened a word document and began to create a list of ideas. Characters, situations, anything that could produce a sharp exhale from your nose if you thought of it. Pretty soon, the page doubled. Then it tripled. Then it shrinked when you decided that some had traces of an accent. This process became consuming, the air enveloping you in a warm shroud, the artificial light of the office dimming and submitting to the even more artificial light of the screen.

You finally stopped, letting yourself breathe and noticing that the world kept going with or without you. 

_"Bill?"_

Your office mate leaned left, the monitor barely covering him anyway but the effort of being polite was endearing to you.

"What's up?"

It felt shameful to ask, but it felt right to ask Bill, he'd already shown somewhat of a soft spot for you.

_"Can you come with me to the meeting early?"_

It was 6.40, not too early, but not on time either.

"Yeah, sure," He stood up from his seat and adjusted his clothes. "if you want. Whatever you want."


	5. The Meeting.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first meeting to discuss the new season and you're barely awake for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ay I'm back if anyone noticed. With the current times I am finding the need to write more so expect more chapters. Oh and if you want, leave a comment. It's nice to know the void answers back sometimes.

The trek to Lorne's office was a strange one. You had spent most of the time talking to Bill, who kept using those accents to emphasise parts of stories. While it was successful in getting you to laugh, you couldn't help but feel like he was rubbing it in. The notepad in your mind filled with ideas based off of these characters, the method of how or when you should bring them to life but a blank section to the right.

Still he went on, and you felt yourself forgetting why you were walking together, the warmth of the moment a welcome presence. Now that both of you were stood up next to each other, you were able to see how tall Bill was, lanky frame with long and wildly moving limbs. You tried to think of something he reminded you of when the door of the office loomed even taller than your new companion. Wait, were you thinking of something from Doctor Who?

"There's people in there already." Bill stated.

Visible through the office window, you could see that he was correct. People conversing, familiar faces with not so familiar ones. You could see Fred Armisen excitedly chatting to Amy Poehler and Seth Meyers, Kenan Thompson talking in deep concentration with equally focused writers. The scene sent a signal of panic to your brain as you worried about everything. Your hands found their way to your t-shirt, trying to stretch it as a form of hiding.

Bill stepped ahead of you and entered, the people huddled inside greeting him warmly. You could see how enveloping the camaraderie of fellow comedians can be, especially when they're being honest. The laughing, the accents that weren't put on because their boss want to play a prank: it was luxurious, comfortable, something you could only dream of as you had to remember where you were from.

 _"New York, for fuck's sake."_ It sounded harsh, pointed. The icicles covering the entrance to a snowy heaven.

"I don't think that's how Sinatra sang it," Jason's face came into view, looking down on you ever so slightly, his joke a coded 'Are you okay?'. You did your best to smile and exude confidence but his normal volume had alerted the inhabitants of the office to your whereabouts. You could see necks turning to see the new arrival.

 _"Liza Minnelli definitely did it that way after he made the record."_ Polite laughter erupted from the room as Jason slowly guided you into the room. Your coded 'No, help me.' seemed to work. It was slightly embarrassing, not only did you feel like a child at nursery again but you had to look at Bill realising you chickened out.

"Hey, are you the new writer?" A bloke you recognised as Seth Meyers was the first to address you. He wore a combination of jumper over button-down shirt with jeans that didn't fit too well but the overall ensemble worked to suggest the truth: he did comedy.

_Uh, yeah. Hi everybody."_ You waved at them, wishing death or at least the benefits of never being known. They smiled and waved back in varying degrees of enthusiasm. Jason slapped the back of your shoulder and did most of the work for you.

"This one is going to do great things if her 500 yard dash has anything to do with her comedy prowess!" The joke at your expense got a bigger laugh, which was bittersweet. The only person to not fully laugh was your office mate, instead choosing to look around the office.

" What music do you listen to?" Fred asked in the way of people at a brunch at a middle class restaurant, sizing you up to see if you were worth the time. Luckily it was way too far gone in the day for mimosas and he was just trying to get to know you. You walked towards the group he formed and tried to think of a band.

 _"A lot of deep 80s new wave mostly. Adam Ant, Squeeze, Talking Heads. Shit like that."_ Fred nodded at your list and adjusted his glasses. His arms were crossed and you could see the hipster cogs in his brain turning. To be fair to yourself, you were listing off previous musical guests in a safe bet that it was perfectly understandable that you would like these artists.

"Oh, interesting.You like the UK scene then?" He smiled at you, either unaware of the hair standing upright on your neck, or making it do that on purpose. You blanked with a response and instead resorted to laugh weakly, quietly thanking God when he walked into his own office. 

"I see the new people are making themselves comfortable." You turned around and saw Lorne in his element: controlling a bunch of comedians. He was referring to you, Bill, and a group of guys who were slightly huddled together on the floor next to the sofa. "I'm sure we'll get to see them properly as the weeks go on. Possibly enough for them to keep their jobs." The crowd erupted in laughter, you joined nervously. 

Walking over to his seat, Lorne looked at everyone, eyeing them up for some weakness. In a wave, everybody sat down and filled the room like a sports hall at school. You found yourself squeezed in next to Bill, and the shaking from his legs informed you that you weren't alone in wanting to disappear. 

"Season 31." The 'boss' spoke and got an applause, which was expected from that number. And that was around 18 episodes to a season, not the 6 or at most 13 you expected to work on at home.

"It should be a good one, hopefully. The first three hosts are up on the board." You all craned your necks round to read the small post-it notes: Steve Carell/Kanye West, Jon Heder/Ashlee Simpson and...oh God, Catherine Zeta-Jones/Franz Ferdinand.

"Can you believe it?" Bill nudged you, popping the bubble of screaming you created in your mind.

 _"Yeah, I know...That's a weird way to spell Ashley."_ Ashleigh? Ashlee? You reminded yourself to research this when you get home, to avoid realizing how very difficult the third week will be. Scottish and Welsh aren't a good combination for your attempts at keeping away from over the pond. 

"I meant Steve Carell." Bill again popped the bubble as he spoke, "That's a hell of a strong opener..." He bit his lip and shook his arm, shaking you in the process. Your hand instinctively went to his moving one, holding onto it and using the other to envelope and drag his hand onto your lap. 

_"You'll be great."_

It took a few seconds before you realised that that was happening. It took him a few seconds to realise too, you both were frozen as the rest of the room chatted about the hosts and guests.

 _"Uh, I mean, you'll do great if you listen to me..."_ You let go of his hand as he took it back, your head processing that moment for later embarrassment, _"...you big...idiot."_ You gave him a light punch on the upper arm. Reasons for why you did this escape you. Maybe it was the need to keep people at a good distance if you only just met them. Maybe it was the tiredness. Maybe it was Lorne's eyes burning into the side of your face. Maybe in a fun sexy twist: it was all three. 

"So, are we all familiar with the next few weeks?" When Lorne spoke, the room fell silent. 

"We are. Good. Tomorrow is Monday, and that means pitches for Steve. Make them good, make them snappy." The crowd murmured. "And most importantly, good luck." At that final line, people started to file out, laughing, discussing, gossiping. You gave a quick goodbye to Bill and stayed behind.

"Having fun?" Lorne finally uttered the words once the office was empty. 

_"Yeah, I just wanted some pointers..."_ The door clicked shut.

"This is quite difficult. I don't mean to question your authority, but, me? Really? Catherine Zeta-Jones?" You threw your arm out at the board.

"You're doing well at the moment." 

"Yes....well..."

Lorne smiled, a smile you would have described as 'shit eating' if he wasn't your employer. "I take it you'll be at the meeting tomorrow." You felt a temptation to not turn up, but then your morals made you speak.

"Yes."

This was your signal to go, no good luck, just the acceptance that you're in it for the long haul. No Fagin number, more like an off-stage death.

"Make sure you're prepared. Steve loves to chat about people's childhood."


	6. The Exit.

You left Lorne's office tired and more disappointed in yourself than you were before you entered. You'd like to blame your nationality for your weakness, good old traditional British politeness, being the door mat because you have some small amount of hope that it'll end up in your favour, but really, it was your own fault. Forget genetics. The rest of the floor wasn't too empty, but people had obviously left the second the door had opened. You made your way back to office 10, humming a melody you couldn't quite place. 

"Don't drink, don't smoke..." Oh, it was Goody Two-Shoes. 

Bill appeared from the doorway just as you began to turn into it. He was wearing the hoodie you remember from being draped across you, and his hand was intertwined with the strap of his bag. You resisted the urge to react to him, praying that he was either familiar with the song, or that he didn't hear your quiet performance of a classic.

 _"You're leaving already?"_ You tried to sound confident, but the shakiness was evident. Bill looked at you for a second, his free hand finding the back of his neck. 

"Uh yeah...I was...U-unless you wanted to get a drink?" His gaze drifted away to a point in the distance behind you. Oh. Was that how you sounded? The angel on your shoulder described a good night, but equally as loud, the devil on the other side whispered the reality: at this point in time, no matter how entertaining and how good the company is, a night out is still work.

 _"I would love to, but..."_ You wanted to stop pretending for a while.

"Don't you drink? I don't really either, but we can...get dinner?" You saw in his eyes a glimmer of hope and your heart shattered quietly. Not just because you were committing the ultimate sin of letting someone down, but also the realisation of what you're picking for your night instead of free food. _"I-uh, have to sort out my apartment."_

Bill relaxed, nodding his head too much for what you said. "That's fair." You both stood still facing each other in the doorway, listening to the air conditioning (such a marvel since you moved) and waiting for the other to say something. Bill took the lead again.

"D-do you need any help?" He stepped closer to you and you panicked only to see him move to the side and let you through. _"It's really very...lovely of you."_ His eyebrows knitted together as you did your signature theatre tiptoe to get your bag. _"Very sweet, but I am..."_ Worried that you'll like him too much and spill the beans on the first day. _"...ashamed of how bad my place is at the moment."_ You picked up the rucksack and fished out your phone.

"Oh, don't worry, my place isn't any better. You should come round to see it." He laughed halfheartedly as you approached him with your phone. _"I should."_ You placed it in his free hand. _"Put your number in and we can sort it out later."_ Bill stared at you blankly, meeting your best attempt at smiling with your whole face. 

"Are you sure?"

The thought that it might seem too forward had crossed your mind, but fuck it, American you is...not you. _"It's fine, we should make friends while we're here."_ Bill immediately began to enter in his number, mouthing it as he went along. You couldn't help but grin at him, the deep concentration tugged on the heartstrings. He finished and handed the phone back to you. "So, are we putting the dinner on hold?" 

_"Let's wait for something to celebrate. I'll see you tomorrow."_

The exchange had made you weirdly giddy, you attributed the feeling quickly to being successfully American. Then the journey home was easy enough, spent listening to music on your MP3 and avoiding the characters of the subway, just like home. You got to your door, unlocked it and turned on the lights in one swift motion, singing quietly as you did it.

"Subtle innuendos follow, must be something..."

The boxes greeted you.

"...Inside."

You shed your outer layers and grabbed a knife, reminded of Patrick Bateman, except, well...broker. As you made the first stab, Lorne's voice echoed in your head.

"Fuck I need to have a childhood!"


	7. The Morning.

You woke up still humming that godforsaken song. It didn't help that you found a best of album during your sorting and thought it was a good idea to play it over and over again until you decided to go to sleep. Not one of your worst nights. Your hand went to your alarm clock, still ringing in the haze of recollection, and instead made aggressive contact with a glass half full with water. Or was it half empty? Either way it was on the floor and creating a puddle in the carpet as you pulled your attention from the initial fright of the collision.

"Shitting Nora!"

God it felt good to say that freely. The air was slightly nippy, but after leaving your bed most air feels the same. Whilst grabbing a towel you took time to witness your new place: York in New York, Hampshire in New Hampshire, other comparisons that showed how lazy the pilgrims were when it came to naming things.

You had sorted all your mini collections: books in two cases, DVDs in one, CDs in half and records filling up the rest. There was even a section of the open plan living room/kitchen area dedicated to the work you've done with copies of scripts and recordings next to them. It wasn't too shabby, it was furnished and most importantly it was you. Pressing the tea towel against the puddle on your bedroom floor wasn't exactly a return to form for you, just an upgrade. You were on time, no need to worry about running and you even had time to make yourself look nice for people. Most specifically your office mate as you suspected that his image of you was not the ideal one.

After a shower and the basics of skincare (you'd had bulk bought before moving out), you stood in front of the tiny mirror on your bathroom cabinet, patting your face with suitable pigments and warming up your voice.

 _"Hey, hellooooo...my name is Y/N, I was born in uh-"_ Your eyes followed a cluster of notes searching for the answer. _"Queens?"_ Too on the nose. _"Manhattan? Manhattan."_ An English sigh escaped, weary of the price of tea. If you were to ambush a younger, more naive version of yourself from last year and told her that your morning now must start with avoiding sounding like John Wayne and steering clear of Robert De Niro, she would have...probably believed you. She would have just witnessed time travel.

You picked up the file you had made of information about the city, your hometown now, and flicked through it, trying to find anything relating to childhood. Once the well of facts had been soaked up, you threw it onto the counter and stared at yourself. The sunlight shone from the window, the white noise of the city was in full force and in that moment you felt you could call this home, this exact moment of truth and evaluation. Perched in your nest, tucked in a tall tree on an island. 

And then the sight of the folder in the perimeters of your perception shook the trunk, sent the nest flying with the bird unable to.

"If the question of schools comes up, I will cry." You grabbed the first bottle of perfume you saw and sprayed it on the important parts, finishing the ritual with a wink at your reflection. _"Like a baby."_

Entering 30 Rock was always much nicer at a walking pace. You could take time to smell the roses, smile at strangers and repeatedly focus on the glimpses of your reflection on shiny surfaces, assimilation shit. The receptionist glared at you subtly, the same one from yesterday, but their facial expression softened as you turned on the warmth with a _"Good morning!"_ and a _"Have a good day!"_. You waited for the elevator, an earphone still tucked in one ear, playing music loud and distracting enough for you to zone out. A person behind you was talking, pausing after each series of muffled half-words to listen to the silence. They did it again, and again. You tried to keep your distance, pulling out your phone to find something to do. Immediately, you began to text Bill.

[Hey, are you coming in early?]

The person behind you reacted to their phone going off. The tone was loud enough for a scare.

[This is Y/N btw xx]

The tone went off a second time. Purely a coincidence to the part of your brain that was jamming to Bowie. 

"Y/N?" That and the combination of a hand landing on your shoulder made you jump and feel stupid simultaneously. 

_"Oh fuck me-!"_ You spun round on the spot to see your office mate holding his phone. There was no one else with him. Bill grinned at you, laughing as the lift doors opened and you both entered. "Hey, you haven't given me the chance to take you out to dinner yet." You pulled the earphone out and wrapped the wires around your MP3 player then pressed the floor number. He was dressed similarly to how he was yesterday, just different colour scheme. Slightly different to your idea of dress to impress- all casual clothes but obviously put together precisely, from the choice of combat boot and the T-shirt referencing an obscure television program. You were the lead character in the film and no one could tell you otherwise.

 _"It's good I didn't let you otherwise the contents of that meal would have been somewhere on the floor."_ Bill was still on his phone, tapping letters in at the usual excruciatingly slow pace that a number pad provided. "How do you spell your name?"

_"Really?"_

He looked up, wide-eyed. Deer in the headlights. You relaxed your face and smiled at him, that smile developing into a laugh. _"I'm joking."_ The colour returned to his face as he went back to finishing off your details. At the point of hesitation, his mouth twisting to reach the corner of his face, you coughed and began to spell. The door opened on the last letter.

_"Et voila."_

"Oui." The two of you stepped out and began the trek through the maze of corridors, only this time you could recognise more people, and vice versa. You waved at Amy, immediately retreated into your shell when Tina appeared, Bill consistent with his outgoing facade.

"Y/N," Tina started off slowly, getting used to your name, "you're writing, right?" You nodded quickly, hand grasping at your jacket. She just smiled warmly, of no effect to you as you tried not to shout 'Cheerio'. Although she might just think you're doing a bit about cereal.

"I didn't catch your audition..." Amy nodded then, holding a finger out before announcing, "Neither did I. Who was in your audition?"

Were they supposed to be there? Oh god, were they? Fuck, shit, bollocks-

_"It was just Lorne."_

A wave of murmuring from the three crashed over you. Bill was the first to make a clear sentence. "Just Lorne? That must have been..."

_"Quiet."_

"Yeah..."

You took yourself back there and felt the sting on your arms. As well as hearing the haunting wet slap of sweaty skin against hard floor. _"It was."_

"Just him?" Tina was still nodding as she spoke, "Must be a reason. I'll be sure to keep you near during writers' room." Tina patted you on the shoulder and passed by you, Amy in tow with a simple nod to the both of you.

 _"Yeah see yo-what?"_ At least she warned you that you're gonna have to keep up. Bill turned to you and frowned with approval. "Got into bed with the head writer..."

 _"It's not bad for a second day."_ You continued on, arriving at the office not long after departure. It was still cold looking, not really a reflection of either of you. Well, not a reflection of you, you were yet to understand what Bill sees in the mirror.

A hand planted on your shoulder, slightly gripping in both the verb and adjective sense.

 _"I hope that's you Bill."_ The hand slid off and Bill pushed past. He dropped his bag onto his desk with a surprisingly solid thump. You did the same, only the thump was more of a soft fwoomp. _"What's in the bag?"_

You saw a grin creep onto his face as soon as you finished the question, it disappearing as fast as it showed itself. His hand dipped into his bag dramatically.

"A..." The tension was unbearable.

"Head!" He quickly pulled a form out, the suddenness making you jump. It wasn't a head, or even vaguely related to Gwyneth Paltrow. Shame. It was a pencil holder. He had come prepared. "I raided Office Depot last week." Out of the bag fell more stationery with the same theme, joined by a cardboard tube. It was plugged at one end and sealed at another. It was...

"Oh, I also brought a poster." Bill grabbed the tube and opened the top with a satisfying pop. He slid out the poster and unfurled it. It was a movie poster. Luckily something you recognised. The bold red with the iconic mixed number: 8 1/2. You couldn't help but grin and remember the last time you saw the film, after a night out with some screenwriters who were on a tangent about Fellini and his impact on the world; you happened to end up at one of their apartments half-dead and trying to read the subtitles.

 _"Fond of Italian cinema?"_ Bill retrieved some pins from a pocket and began to fight with curled corners as he tried to stick it into the wall. "I-fucker-watched it with my family. We were movie people," He secured one corner. "what about yours?" With added stroking to straighten an edge, he secured the top corners. You let yourself dip into the choppy waters you were used to at home and sat in front of the telly, watching whatever shite was on, most likely Blankety Blank. 

_"We preferred the telly..."_ They don't say that. _"...vision."_ With Bill's back to you and his attention mainly on that _last fucking corner,_ you proceeded to grimace at yourself.

"Are you in pain Y/N?" It was Jason in the doorway. He too went for the idea of same ensemble, different colour palette, a jumper and collared shirt combination tying the whole thing together. _"Just blind panic."_ You winked at him before realising, American you was a flirt of the laziest kind apparently. Or she was emulating a middle-aged person telling a joke at a football club bar.

Oh no.

They're the same thing. 

"Got it!" Bill exclaimed and took a step back, revealing the poster, only slightly crooked. You could see indents on his thumbs and palms from the pin backs being forced into the plaster. "Nice." Jason nodded then clapped his hands together. "Pitch meeting." This time the grimace was induced by pain. "What do we know about Steve Carell?"

Bill looked at you, you returned the look, shrugged and finally dropped into your chair. You watched him do the same and begin listing off a compressed history of the host. "Uh, he was an anchor for the Daily Show, he was in The Dana Carvey Show, he's the lead in the remake of The Office.."

 _"What?"_ You knew you'd heard his name before. You hadn't seen the fabled remake, the news was terrifying enough. It was a death sentence for America to redo already fine shows. No chance at a revival after that. _"The Office?"_ Jason smirked and worked his way to the sofa before reclining on it. "Are you a purist?" Out of the corner of your eye you could see Bill decorating his desk. _"Yeah, something like that."_ You had been an intern on the first series, protectiveness runs deep. _"Can we do something about that?"_ Your guest shook his head and sunk further into the cushions. 

"The show is kind of too new to reference fully, I mean it is a complete remake of the original which is-"

_"An institution, right."_

"I was gonna say a cult classic, but that works too." Bill sat up, logging onto his computer with half of his being and brainstorming with the other. "I can do impressions." His computer chimed in agreement. "Would it hurt to suggest something involving that?" The silence hit again, but at least you had the turning of mental cogs to keep you company.

 _"It wouldn't."_ You didn't know for sure, but laying the confidence in thick distracted from the reality of that baseless claim. It was a start though. Jason yawned, stretching like a cat in the midday sun. "It wouldn't hurt to create fake pitches, what matters is afterwards." He got up and headed back to the doorway. 

_"What?"_ A crushing weight took a dive from your chest and met its grisly end on the floor. "I mean, at least be funny." You can do funny without commitment, one-liners was part and parcel of your occupation. Jason saluted the result of his appearance, two very confused yet relieved people, and left. Your thoughts started to board the train of no-return as you typed your details into your computer. They arrived at the first stop seconds later.

 _"Can you do a vague English accent, like Southern and middle-class?"_ Bill's eyes lit up, you had found his niche instantly.

"Yes, can you?"

Give it time, the trust of your coworkers and the orders of your boss, miraculously, you can.

_"No, I'm terrible at accents."_


	8. The Brainstorm.

Bill had found his comfort spot within hours of being in the office: leaning back in his chair, feet firmly planted on the floor, arms free for gestures. You had found the sofa, lying down knees bent, one hand holding a pencil and the other holding an already full pad of notes. It wasn't like you were going to be adding anymore. Your arms weren't in the right position to write. And thankfully, your office mate was a great note-taker. 

_"Uh...Bush Administration."_

He nodded and leaned forward to type those two words, the space bar a different sounds to the other keys, so a welcome sign that he was done.

_"...but in The O-"_

"Wait, I haven't finished." The backspace, also a different sound, hit several times. You craned your neck around to see him focused on the screen. After Jason's impromptu performance you could see Bill's nerves return to him. If they ever even left of course. He finally hit the space with a single ceremonial poke. "You can continue."

 _"Thanking you."_ You flipped through your notepad ignoring the now frequent game of 'Dialect, Idiolect, or Normal Speak'. _"The Bush Office but in the style of The Office."_ Again you looked to Bill, who was already looking at you. He tilted his head, furrowed his brows, pouted. "I mean, it sounds good. Do we need detail?" Nevertheless, he typed the rest in. Detail and US politics as a combination was equivalent to a cut and lemon juice. You shrugged and scanned your page for ideas seeing the short and simple 'Cockney Something? Monarchy??'.

_"Improvise."_

In your peripherals you could see Bill looking at you. You wondered if this is what it was like when you were asleep. Unfortunately instead of going to something sweet, you immediately went creepy. Instead of a sweeping orchestral score, your mind fished out Q Lazzarus. Oh no, Sir. 

"Improvise?" He was still there, clothed and hopefully comfortably sat on just seat. With a move you had mastered in one of ten writer's rooms you had attended, you tucked your pencil behind your ear and used your free hand to do a horizontal royal wave. Cockney Monarchy had more of a ring to it now that you were thinking about it. 

_"Well, you must have been trained. Look at you, you've got the aura of a 'Yes and' surrounding you."_ Bill went red for a second and smiled. Which was the best reaction you could have got. He wasn't aware of your aversion to audience participation yet. "I did some classes with Second City actually..." You made your limp wrist and wiggled your fingers at him.

 _"Ooooo fancy boy at Second City!"_ The sentence caused your voice to hit notes you didn't think you could reach as an American, but they were still there, like an old friend at a former regular haunt. A comfortable glove fit for lighthearted mocking. Bill looked blankly at your outburst. "It wasn't fancy."

Oh, lighthearted and mocking got lost in delivery. _"It's fancier than nothing."_ You withheld listing off all the people you could recall that mentioned that they worked and learned in one of the bases. "Did you have nothing?" The question sunk into your chest and took your breath for a second. No, you didn't have nothing: you had 5 years of secondary school, 2 years of college and 3 years of university before you made enough connections to begin even thinking about sending off scripts. You were coached by teachers, guest lecturers, even your peers. But all of that was based in the Home Counties and London. Except the segue to Edinburgh but that was a miserable week due to the coach breaking down and the weather. 

_"Here and there. What about characters?"_

Bill shot up with a gasp, all suspicion hopefully melted away to some deeper pool of unimportant thoughts. "Ah! Well...I do have one that I want to use." You could see that he was most comfortable performing to friends, you were most comfortable working off of friend's performances. A match made in heaven. A match of possible friends, definite coworkers.

"He's called Vinny Vedecci and he's an Italian impressionist." Your eyes drifted to the poster behind him. _"Nice."_ He did a half curtsy. "And he's the stereotypical Italian. Marcello but...less charismatic." Bill immediately started going into the accent, then switching from Vinny to Faulkner, back to Vinny then to Pacino. It was amazing to witness fully awake, it reminded you of old variety but with an edge you couldn't pinpoint until he swore. Then again, 'Bring Me Fucking Sunshine' would have been wild. Like last time, the show sent you into fits of giggles, even leaving you chuckling for a minute after he finished.

 _"That's pretty blood-fucking good."_ The slip-up produced one of the worst mental images you've witnessed as of late.

"It's amazing!" A different voice, neither of yours. Stood next to your desk, a man of similar age, hair long and curling upwards at the end to create a crown of curly dark brown hair. The next thing you noticed, below a grin, was a dimpled chin on a square jaw. You recognised him from last night in Lorne's office, he was one of the three blokes who were with you and Bill as new people. 

"Oh hey! Andy!" Bill seemed to have put more effort in when it came to socialising. Another thing to add to the notepad: 'talk to more people'.

Andy walked over to you and stuck out a hand, which caught you off-guard due to being horizontal and all. You returned with your hand, still stuck in royal wave. The result of this decision may haunt you forever, but to be honest, knowing your luck and just how the cards were being dealt to you lately; it probably won't be the worst thing to be marked on your soul.

Instinctively, Andy changed his handshake to holding your hand, which you could tell was sending him into a panic as well but, fuck it, might as well.

_"How do you do."_

It's a genuine pity they seal the windows sometimes. Andy immediately bowed and finished with a flourish that couldn't save what had happened despite the valiant effort.

"M'lady, I have come to ask for your help, and also the help of good sir Bill." He spoke in a rough version of someone from Chichester. Or possibly a drunk upmarket student.

You took back your hand with an overcompensating laugh then sat up. You could see Bill wanting to continue the bit but a glance towards you stopped him. "What do you need help with?" Andy looked between the two of you and landed on the poster.

"Fellini. Nice."

_"Very."_

He shook his head and pointed at Bill. "I have a segment idea for Update that I can do with you." He twisted to point at you. "And Tina likes you, so I want you to help us."

"What's the idea?" 

_"She likes me?"_

Andy turned back to Bill, which made sense. "Uh it's something based on impressions, but it's not really fleshed out so I asked around and was directed here for both impressions and help writing."

_"Tina Fey likes me?!"_

The two stared at you, slightly fearful. You realised what had happened, cleared your throat, and took the pencil from your ear. 

_"I'd love to help..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She's back at it again with the chapter (despite it being short, but you know, gotta keep up with the structure)! I am delighted to read the comments, it is lovely to see people enjoying it. Weird to think a very strong self-insert is being read by more than just me over and over again. Or the latter is true and I am just very committed to the ruse, which then does make this even stronger of a self-insert. 
> 
> Due to being painfully pretentious, I do make Spotify playlists for the stuff I write, so if you wonderful people would like one based on this, please do let me know. It's all heavily connected to the fic itself, with songs from certain episodes and songs/artists mentioned in chapters.
> 
> Hopefully you are still reading this bit, and if you are, thank you and sorry x


	9. The Inspiration.

_"I mean it's good."_ You scrolled through a first draft of a skit, created in 20 minutes of focused discussion. _"It's strong even."_ Andy was pacing up and down the walkway from the door to the couch, Bill was leaning on the now distractingly plain wall behind you, looking over your shoulder at your screen. 

"How did you write that so fast?" His voice came from the bottom of his throat, you could sense he was impressed. Hopefully he couldn't see your childish grin in the reflection but possibly the fact he wasn't pointing it out meant he hadn't. Andy paused in the middle of his path and looked towards you two. "She wrote the script?" Well, kind of. 

_"She has a name."_

He held his hands up and tried again. "Has Y/N finished it?" You smiled a warm smile, partly to make up for what you were now seeing as kind of an American social faux pas- sudden sternness as a woman. Although it could have been the way in England, you just didn't pay enough attention to the reactions around you as they meant much less than they did now. Once deciding that you should do that less, you mumbled while looking back at your screen. _"Kind of. I made sure to include stuff but if you didn't care about being polished, then this is a finished script."_ It resembled more of a pre-first draft, just combining what you all were discussing with the general rules of comedy: rule of three....and be funny. You can't remember the others but you knew when something sounded off.

"We care about being polished." Bill answered for the room. You detected a hint of hesitation but fair enough. He cut you off before you even began, "Wait, can I just add something?" Using the time between finishing his sentence and you registering what the words meant, he leaned forward from his spot behind you and landed with his hands on your desk, each on either side of you. It wasn't the first and it probably won't be the last time you were left speechless but words seemed to fail you. Well except for _"U-Uh, sure."_

Not daring to look up for fear of collision, you stared at his hands grabbing the keyboard and pulling it closer within reach. Heat started to spread from the top of your head to your back giving you some hint of how close he was, but you weren't sure how the heat on your cheeks happened, instead dismissing it as something linked to the new weather. "Am I making you uncomfortable?" His voice sounded different from this angle, a bit more heavy on the bass. Like he was trying to make it low for effect. A small part of you that scoffed at this sort of scene in workplace films in a genre you couldn't quite place tried to take control, only for American You to suppress, kicking the crates of tea into the harbour in the process.

 _"No, you're fine."_ The document started to shift as Bill began editing, adding in a line for Andy, replacing **(Bad Impression)** with **(Budweiser Commercial)**. You couldn't help but look confused as you tried to remember what commercial meant for a second. _"Budweiser Commercial?"_. A gasp from Andy, who was still there despite the moments before causing you to block out everything past Bill. The gasp turning into an inhale just before-

"WHASSUUUUUUP" You flinched in your seat and felt the back of your head hit something with more give than you hoped for. The hands that were in front of you went to your shoulders and forced you to look up at your shame, who was looking back with an amused concern. _"Are you wearing cologne?"_ A scent you could describe as masculine and possibly woody crept into your nostrils. Bill stammered and grabbed at his t-shirt collar, still looking down.

"Uh yeah, I wanted to impress...the host." Andy laughed at that, clearly satisfied with the effect of his sudden recital. "Is Steve Carell a big fan of cologne?" Another stammer from Bill, his eyes darting from yours to straight ahead. "It's always good to smell nice." He lifted his other hand from you and made a magician-like gesture towards his person. "You've never heard of a bad smelling successful person." It went silent for a moment, then Andy held a finger in the air.

"Jesus."

Bill tilted his head slightly, opened his mouth for no sound to escape, tilted his head to the other side, opened his mouth again. "I don't have the confidence to argue with that." A bow from his short term opponent and you were all back to business.

 _"So, segment."_ The blokes murmured a form of letting you know they were paying attention then fell silent. _"This should be good for Weekend Update, and it also includes nothing topical."_

You felt cold air on your back again as Bill walked back to his desk, hand on his sternum where you accidentally headbutted him. He picked up his hoodie and began putting it on. Andy took that as a sign to straighten what he was wearing and smooth the top of his hair with his palm. "Is not being topical good?" He was clearly not there for your wonderful George Bush idea. 

_"It's a bonus for us, let's just say that. What's happening?"_ You saved the script and logged off your computer, fearing that there was some sort of clue about you left open on the monitor. Never mind the fact that Bill had been on it for only a few seconds. Andy slipped out before answering, obviously in a rush to get somewhere. Now returning to the normal occupancy, your office mate answered.

"The meeting in an hour." You stayed still, still looking at him confused. _"But, we're leaving."_ A quick point to the door. _"He left."_ Bill zipped up and grabbed his bag, stopping to make sure he had everything on him. "Andy's got a small group with more work than us, if you'll believe it." That made you snicker and it was technically only the first proper day. Most jobs it took at least a week to understand how heavy the workload was. 

_"But why-"_ Your point turned to him. Bill put a hand on his chest, the same area that had made contact with your head, the same solid warmth...you were thinking too much.

"I am going to get a coffee..." The ee sound was dragged out. "...if you wanted to join me?" A grin shifted itself into place on your face and made your response slightly harder to happen for fear of giggling. American You was starting to corrupt your subconscious. _"Sure. Is this the replacement for that dinner last night?"_

"It's not as formal but we have a reason celebrate. I'll even pay." He pulled out his wallet and you saw flashes of Julia Roberts behind your eyelids. Shaking your head to be rid of connotations, you followed Bill out of the office and back into that metal comfort prison that should always be called a lift. Bill followed suit, finding his corner then pressing the button for the lobby. _"What are we celebrating?"_ Whilst admittedly a smooth line from him, it had only been now that you realised he might be talking utter shite.

"Oh, uh...we were successful in writing. I don't know I didn't expect you to agree." He laughed off that last part and looked ahead away from you, then down to the gaudy carpet. 

What was that supposed to mean? How could you get him to elaborate, to explain something so personal to you, something that could be so socially damning?

_"What's that supposed to mean?"_

Bill didn't meet your gaze so confidently this time, but still with the same warmth in his demeanour. "I guess I thought you'd want to focus on the job for a while, keep your head down."

You were trying not to glare at him in bewilderment, but it was proving the toughest challenge, and you were about to walk around a place you've only just moved to like you were born there. _"Do I seem cold?"_

His voiced raised just so in surprise. "God, no! No, the opposite maybe. You're just very...driven. It's impressive." The doors opened as other people got on, pushing you two into the corner together. Their conversations stopped yours as you nodded to him once settling back in place. For a while you stayed that way, still thinking about what he said, how he looked while he said it, what it meant. Giving your English Literature A-level a run for its money.

_"Thanks."_

Bill shifted then responded. "What for?"

_"Calling me impressive. Puts us on equal playing field."_

He rubbed his arm and leaned into you as a way of nudging. "It means you won't be mad when I ask you to pay, I left my wallet on my desk." The door opened to the lobby and he rushed out quickly in the sea of others. 

_"You arsehole!"_ The time for saying correct things was when you could shout without wanting to apologise, instead saying it hushed and doing the no lip smile to everyone as you weaved through them to get to him. He was waiting by a pillar, grinning at your lack of one. "I realised when we got on-" You started to retort, being cut off with his hand held up. "-but if you think about it, it's very feminist of us to have you pay."

 _"It's very feminist of us to realise I get paid less."_ Bill winced and gestured for you to walk with him. "I'll pick somewhere cheap, how about Starbucks?" You sighed and opened your purse to reveal enough money to not really worry, but-

 _"It's not that-"_ Not being told the actual price until the tax was added at the till scared you a bit. You can't deal with the uncertainty. _"It's fine. I've got residuals coming in anyway."_

"What from?"

Ah, you forgot about that. _"Just some shows I worked on. Let's get caffeinated."_ You did a small fist pump and headed in the direction of the Starbucks you had made sure to remember for a resting point away from your apartment and work. The streets weren't too different from London, to your pleasant surprise. The same tourists, the same commotion, it just had a different edge. It seemed new. It was new. The street system was too ordered for you though, you weren't a big fan of the numbers. 

"Do you think you're ready for pitching?" Bill seemed to be asking both you and himself at the same time as you crossed the street. He beat you to it. 

_"It's certainly a different format, but it won't kill you."_ The sight of the sign was a relief, it meant that a heart-to-heart was nearing its fateful end. "You never know."

_"It's a 50/50 chance between being famed or maimed. I'd put money on that."_ Lady luck wasn't a close companion. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof she's been gone for a minute. Not getting into detail, the past couple of months have been rough and not in a fun way. If you feel any way moved by that vague statement or want to commission a cheeky little fic, feel free to check out my profile bio. 
> 
> Oh and I mentioned a playlist inspired by and helping to inspire this, here is the link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1yp9jBWxyV4QfwdLsRi3u5?si=-21MdmugQcWDIM7tLpzlSw


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